by Aaron Elkins
Gideon had taken the skull into his hands while Viennot was speaking and had turned it around to take his first careful look at the other side, the right side, the one with both the round entrance wound and the depressed fracture suffered when Tari struck his head on the hearth in falling. He traced his fingers over the network of cracks between them. Well, well...
"Colleague?"
"Hm?” Gideon surfaced. “Oh, I'm sorry. You were saying... ?"
"That we might hypothesize with some confidence as to what actually happened."
"I don't think there'd be any point in that, sir."
The physician's mobile features contracted into a scowl. “No point?"
"In hypothesizing.” Gideon replaced the skull on the butcher paper. “I know what actually happened,” he said with perhaps a little more panache than was strictly required; it was a common failing with him at such moments.
It takes a ham to appreciate a ham, and, as Gideon thought he might be, Viennot was delighted. After an astounded silence during which the cigar stub hung pasted to his lower lip he barked with laughter. “You know!" he cried happily. “How do you know?” He chomped down on the cigar and leaned expectantly forward, elbows on the table, his nose no more than a foot from the bone. Like every true man of science he was at his happiest when about to be instructed.
"I know,” Gideon said, “because cracks don't cross cracks."
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Chapter 28
* * * *
Cracks don't cross cracks.
Once a year Gideon taught part of a week-long forensic seminar that the Smithsonian put on for law enforcement personnel from across the country. And one of the first tests of scientific observation that his students were faced with came in the form of a hard-boiled egg that had been briskly tapped in three places with the underside of a tablespoon, so that at the site of each stroke was a small indentation in the shell (not at all unlike a depressed fracture), with a network of hairline cracks radiating from it.
"Pretend,” Gideon would say, handing it over for their inspection, “that this is a human skull fractured in three places by blows from a blunt instrument. What I want you to tell me is, which is the first blow that was struck, which is the second, and which is the third?"
Sometimes they would figure it out on their own. More often they would be stymied. “How the hell are we supposed to know that?” some grumpy sergeant who hadn't wanted to be there in the first place could be depended on to mutter.
Which is when Gideon would say: “Cracks don't cross cracks."
Once that was understood, which never took long, it was a simple matter. One of the dents in the shell would have a network of cracks that was unimpeded; the spidery, radiating lines would extend until they simply ran out of steam and petered out on their own. That was the site of the first blow. The cracks emanating from another one of the dents would also run to their natural limits—except for those that ran into already existing cracks from the first one and were stopped dead by them. That was the second blow. And the cracks from the third dent would stop every time they came to a crack from either of the other two. That, necessarily, was the third blow.
What was true of eggshells was true of skulls. A crack could not leap across open space to the far side of an aperture and continue, no matter how narrow the cleft. And in the skull before them, as he now pointed out to the enchanted Viennot, two of the cracks coming from the bullet hole were clearly cut off by cracks radiating from the depressed fracture. Therefore, the depressed fracture already existed when the bullet entered; the crushing blow to Tari's head had come before he was shot, not after.
"Before he was shot, yes,” echoed Viennot, nodding. “And that means..."
That meant that Rudy had not merely been forgetful, or unobservant, or overexcited in reporting what had happened. Rudy, seemingly so helpless and distraught, had been lying through his teeth, coolly and calculatingly.
"This explains the incomplete exit wound on the other side too,” Gideon said, reconstructing the scene in his mind (minus the blood and brains). “Tari already had his skull cracked open before he was shot. He must have been lying on the floor unconscious or maybe barely conscious. Rudy bent down, put the gun next to Tari's right temple—"
"Yes, that's right, a point-blank wound."
"—and pulled the trigger. The pressure of the floor kept the bullet from exiting completely from the other side of his head."
He had been staring at the skullcap all the time he spoke, but now he looked up to meet Viennot's eyes. “He murdered him,” he said with the dreamy satisfaction of a man who had put in a hell of a good morning's work. Not that it wasn't about time he'd done something useful.
"Colleague,” said Viennot, leaning back in his chair, “I salute you."
* * * *
Colonel Bertaud contained his admiration more successfully than Dr. Viennot had ("You're certainly full of surprises this morning."), but he quickly grasped the significance of the new information that Gideon had brought him, which was all that Gideon was really interested in.
"Thibault, call the hospital,” he said into his telephone in rapid French. “Find out what room Mr. Rudolph Druett is in. And bring my car around."
"I do see one difficulty, however,” he told Gideon in that silky voice. “Not insurmountable but a difficulty all the same.” He turned his swivel chair so that he could look out on the avenue Bruat. It was a little after 9 A.M. Papeete's rush-hour traffic, such as it was, was settling down. Only a few motor scooters and bicycles were on the street. “How do you propose that we should account,” he asked thoughtfully, “for Tari's having struck his head on the hearth in the first place? Tari was a giant, yes? Rudy is a slight man, no more than half his weight. Is it conceivable that he could knock him down or throw him to the floor?"
"I don't think he did. My guess is Tari never did hit his head on the hearth; that the wound was caused by something else."
The colonel swiveled back to face Gideon. “But we have his blood, his hair, on the hearth. Our laboratory confirms it."
"Here's what I think happened, Colonel: I think Rudy clubbed Tari with something—maybe with a poker from the fireplace. Maybe it was premeditated, or maybe there was an argument, I don't know. Something. Anyway, Rudy hit him over the head from behind, then shot him to make sure he was dead, then smeared his head against the hearth—and banged his own head against the wall a little too—to back up his story about Tari's trying to kill him and how the whole thing was an accident, and so on."
He glanced at the skullcap on Bertaud's desk (Gideon had carried it from the hospital in a paper sack). “If you think about the placement of the fracture—high up, back, and on the right side—you'll see it's just where you'd expect it to be if Tari had been crept up on from behind by a right-handed assailant."
"Ah, is that so?"
"Definitely.” Then after a moment: “Well, it's also where you'd expect it to be if Tari had hit his head on the hearth in falling, so it's hardly proof of anything, but at least it fits. But you know,” he added as the thought occurred to him, “if I could have a look at that hearth and the poker and anything else along those lines, I just might be able to match one of them to the fracture in the skull. If nothing else, I ought to be able to rule some things out. Do you—"
Bertaud's telephone buzzed. Bertaud picked it up, listened with the faintest tck of irritation, and replaced it in its cradle.
"He's not there,” he said to Gideon. “He was released this morning."
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Chapter 29
* * * *
Clearly, Nelson Lau was on pins and needles. “I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to come and see me,” he said, twiddling with his ballpoint pen.
"Kind of,” John said.
"I trust it wasn't any trouble.” He turned the pen with his fingers, round and round, tapping it on the desk at each half-rotation.
"Nope."
> "It's just that I thought it would be better to talk here at the Papeete office, rather than back at the Hut. It's more private.” Round and round went the pen. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. “Don't you agree?” Tap.
"Nelson,” John said, “how about just telling me what you want to tell me? Also, if you don't stop fooling with that pen I'm gonna rip your arm off."
"Oh. Yes. Well.” He laid the pen down. Now his upper lip began to pulse with tiny puffs of air. The finicky little mustache twitched along with it. John tried looking out the window. Nelson's office had an expansive view of the busy quays and docks of Papeete Harbor.
"Let me give you some figures,” Nelson said, twitching away. “Mostly through our American operation we sell about six hundred thousand pounds of roasted beans a year in the form of our several coffees. Now, inasmuch as it takes a hundred pounds of green beans to make sixty pounds roasted, that means that we have either to harvest or to buy a total of a million pounds of green beans a year. Are you following me so far?"
"I think I'm managing to hang in there,” John said.
"Now then,” Nelson continued uneasily, “we can harvest only about two hundred thousand pounds a year here, from which it follows that we have to buy an additional eight hundred thousand pounds a year from other growers around the world. Now, of those eight hundred thousand—"
"Nelson, this is really interesting, but how about getting to the point? I've got a lot on my plate today."
"The point is—” said Nelson with heat, but then seemed to lose impetus. He sagged in his high-backed leather chair and crossly mumbled something.
John turned from the window. “What?"
"I said—I said I need your advice."
John forgot all about Nelson's mustache. He stared at him, amazed. “You what?" He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but these were words he had never in his life expected to hear from his older brother. No wonder the poor guy was looking so uncomfortable.
"As an FBI agent. You know about these things."
"What things, Nelson? What are you talking about?"
Nelson started fiddling with his pen again. Tap, tap, tap. “The thing is, I had it backward. We all had it backward. Tari wasn't stealing from us at all. Tari was right.” Tap, tap—
John took the pen out of Nelson's hand and placed it firmly in the pen-and-pencil caddy on the desk. “About what?"
"About our paying too much—ten times too much—in some cases twenty times too much—for some of the beans we buy from other suppliers."
"Is that right?” John murmured. Wheels began to turn. “Are you sure?"
Of course he was sure, Nelson said. He had spent the last two days poring over the books, and he was certain of his facts. Of the 800,000 pounds of beans purchased annually, 300,000 pounds came from two growers—about 100,000 from Java Green Mountain in Indonesia, and about 200,000 from the Colombian firm of Calvo Hermanos. And in virtually every order from these two suppliers, Paradise had been paying at least ten times the market value. Beans that should have cost $1.50 a pound had been ordered—and paid for—at $15 a pound. Beans that were bringing $2 on the international market had been entered on Paradise's books at $20. Paradise had been buying virtually the cheapest arabica beans available and paying the world's highest prices.
What's more, this had been going on for almost five years. The result was that they had been overpaying these two suppliers by about—Nelson had to swallow before he could get it out—$6 million a year.
"Six—!” John looked at him. “You're saying that in the last five years Paradise has overpaid something like thirty million bucks for its beans?"
"Exactly,” Nelson said wretchedly.
"Whew,” John said. “I think I'm starting to see why you have to charge thirty-eight bucks for a pound of coffee."
"It's not funny, John.” He sat there behind his handsome teak-and-leather desk, wringing his hands and looking miserable. “What's Nick going to say when I tell him?"
"Nelson,” John said gently, “how could this happen? Why did it take Tari to find out about it? Why didn't you see it before?"
Nelson reared back defensively. “It wasn't my job. Brian was supposed to stay on top of coffee prices, not me."
Ah. Brian. Things were beginning to add up. “But you're the comptroller."
"We don't work that way, John. We're a family, we don't go around checking on each other. The books balance and we make a profit; it never occurred to me to review the invoices themselves. Coffee prices are unbelievably complex. They change every day, sometimes more than once a day. You have to know the industry. And as you know, I'm no coffee expert—I've always been the first to admit that."
Not in John's hearing, he hadn't. “Look, Nel, tell me this: How do you make a profit? If you're paying ten times what you should for your beans, then you must—"
"Charge ten times what we should for our coffee. Yes, I suppose that's what you could say we've been doing. But not from any intent to overprice, you must understand that. Our prices necessarily reflect the value we put into the product in the way of labor, equipment, and costs. And the product is simply—"
” ‘The World's Most Expensive Coffee,’ “ John said.
Nelson frowned at him, as if deciding just how much offense he ought to take. Then he blinked and hesitated.
"'Bar None,'” he said.
For a second, they continued to look at each other, then burst into gales of laughter.
"Oh, dear...” Nelson said when he could speak. “Oh, dear... what are we laughing at anyway?"
"Probably all those yuppie types sitting around in all those latte bars, scarfing the stuff down and talking about how buttery it is, how chocolaty, how, how..."
"Piquant," Nelson said, beginning to shake again.
"And all the while,” laughed John, “they're drinking the cheapest crap in the world, only they can't tell the difference."
"And obviously,” said Nelson, “neither could we!"
And off they went again. This was certainly a new Nelson. It was the first time since they'd been children that they'd laughed together this way, and it felt good. Good God, if it kept up, he was liable to wind up actually liking the guy.
"Do you know what?” Nelson said when they quieted down. “You haven't called me Nel in thirty years. No one has."
John couldn't think of anything to say. “Yeah, well.” This was followed by a somewhat awkward pause.
"In any event,” said Nelson, “the reason I wanted to talk to you was to ask if this has the earmarks of something... something illegal. I don't mean on the part of Java Green Mountain and Calvo Hermanos, I mean on our part—that is, on the part of... of someone at Paradise."
"Yeah, it does,” John said. “It sounds like money-laundering."
Nelson winced. “That's what I was afraid you'd say.” He began to reach for the ballpoint pen again but at a guttural rumble from John he pulled his hand back and laid it in his lap. “But look, I'm not clear on what this money-laundering business is about. I thought I was, but I'm not. It has to do with drugs, doesn't it?"
"Usually, yeah."
"But where would drugs enter into this? We pay ten times as much as we should for green beans and we sell the finished product for ten times what it's worth. The growers do very well indeed, the consumers pay through the nose, and we make an innocent, modest profit. It's hardly a model of keen business practice, but where do drugs come into it? Where does money-laundering come into it?"
"It's pretty complicated, Nelson. I'd rather—"
"I think I can manage to hang in there,” Nelson said. Definitely a new Nelson.
All right, then, John said. The Colombian drug cartels had a long-established system of working with their American dealers. The American dealers—importers, they were called in the trade—didn't pay for the dope up front, they maintained open “accounts” with their Colombian sources and settled only after the stuff had been sold on the streets.
"Sound business practic
e,” said Nelson with something close to approval. “Receipts first, then payments. It's a question of cash flow. Any sensible businessman would prefer to handle it that way."
But these “businessmen” had a problem unique to international drug-trafficking, John explained. Most of the money that was collected was in great armloads of small-and medium-denomination bills—truckloads, really, amounting to many millions of dollars. The question was: How did you get it out of the country and into Colombia? And the problem was that you couldn't carry more than $10,000 out of the United States unless you declared it with Customs, something these guys were not eager to do. And you couldn't put all that cash in a bank checking account and draw a check on it either, because banks had to report deposits of $10,000 or more.
One way of getting around this involved smurfing, which—
"Ah...smurfing?” Nelson said.
Smurfing, said John. Multiple bank transactions of seven, or eight, or nine thousand dollars—anything under ten. A van holding maybe fifteen runners shows up in the financial district of a big city in the morning just as the banks open. The runners pile out, head for the banks, and buy cashier's checks (which can be made out to any name you want, and which usually don't require identification). Then they run off to the next bank with another load of cash, and the next, and the next. A single runner can convert $150,000 in a day. And the following day they're in another city doing it all over again.
"But why is it called smurfing?” Nelson wanted to know.
"Because of the way they all scoot off from the delivery van like a bunch of little Smurfs. You know."
Nelson didn't know. “In any case, I fail to see what this has to do with us,” he said irritably.
Patience, John counseled. Once the cash was smurfed into checks it would be “layered,” that is, electronically transferred from Account A in Bank I to Account B in Bank 2, splitting it up and recombining it until its origins were lost somewhere in cyberspace. Once you had a dozen banks and twenty accounts involved, the money was virtually untraceable. At that point, it could safely find its way into the accounts of an international importer such as Paradise Coffee.
